


The Adversities of Loving

by merthurlocked



Series: The Pankratz Boy [4]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, How Do I Tag, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jaskier meeting geralt, Jaskier's life through the years, Lots of Angst, M/M, Minor Character Death, Only light though, happy ending to come in next instalment, kind of, or anyone else for that matter, sort of as I go through Jaskier and Geralts scenes, though he doesn't really know it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:47:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22993438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merthurlocked/pseuds/merthurlocked
Summary: Jaskier was born to shower the world with his endless love - whether it wants it or not. Even if it doesn't love him back. Even if it's just for a day, a moment, one second.For he will take anything,because anything is always better than nothing.and then,he meets Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, past - Relationship
Series: The Pankratz Boy [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644877
Comments: 41
Kudos: 265





	The Adversities of Loving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CamCam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamCam/gifts).



> *The title is from the books and is in fact the title of Jaskier's own memoirs he canonically writes in the series.
> 
> You do not have to read the other stories in this series as it can be read as a stand-alone fic.  
> Although I encourage you to read them as Jaskier's family will be more familiar to you.
> 
> Not beta-read as per, so any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
> 
> Also thanks to dinahdarling (on tumblr) or MissDinahDarling (on A03) for helping with my summary, her own writing is breathtaking and loved by all the Geraskier fandom <3

Jaskier is eighteen-months old,

and he has learned to walk and talk, _or at least babble some coherent words together._

He stumbles on his two little feet, as he tries to toddle after his older brothers. He giggles and squeals, and every time he gets a little closer to them, he lets out a loud high-pitched shriek of laughter. He desperately tries to clutch on to them, but he trips and falls and lands suddenly on his little knobbly knees, and Bohdan, his oldest brother, turns around, stops running and instead goes to check on him. Whilst Herman runs out of the room totally oblivious to Jaskier’s trip.

Bohdan bends down and gently lifts Jaskier’s head up to see his face clearer, and see Jaskier's eyes fill with liquid. Watches as the liquid spills over and runs down his littlest brother’s plump cheeks. He watches Jaskier’s breath quicken, with his chest rising and falling rapidly. 

Jaskier _knows_ that he simply cannot contain his sobs anymore, so he lets them out, and his little wails rack his body, because that fall had really hurt, and it’s not supposed to hurt. 

_Why does it hurt?_ He pleads with his eyes and looks at his older brother, demanding to know why he hurts, and why the hurt won’t go away.

And Bohdan, _big brother Bohdan,_ looks down at his face and tells him to hush, softly, and “Don’t worry little man, you are okay.” Jaskier feels the comfort of his brother's words, and then his whimpering starts to subside.

But then he hears heavy sounding footsteps making their way towards him, sees a set of feet enter his line of sight. And they stop just in front of the two brothers currently kneeling on the floor, and a gravelly voice is heard over the silence that had fallen just moments before,

“You should leave him to fall, he has to learn to pick himself back up, and I will not tolerate any child of mine demanding attention by crying!”

Jaskier ducks his head down at the raised voice, not quite understanding the words behind it, but knows enough that the feeling in the air has changed rapidly around him, the warmth having been slowly leached away. Bohdan starts to answer back,

“But he is just a baby- '' but stops immediately at the thunderous look that has crossed his father’s face.

“Don’t you dare answer back child, and get off of the ground, those clothes are to be looked after and not dirtied. Leave Julian alone and get on with your studying.”

Jaskier watches his big brother, _his first protector_ , leave the room following in his father’s footsteps, and Jaskier’s little shoulders droop down.

Because yes, he is small, yes, he is a baby and yes, he does not quite understand what is going on, but he does _f_ _eel_ , 

and right now he feels a sense of loss, a sense of something important just having disappeared.

He can feel the last bit of warmth leave the room in the shape of his older brother.

* * *

He is three years old and he is in his sisters’ room.

His body is being pushed into a tiny white dress, with pink frills and white embroidered daisies carefully sewn along the seams. And it is too tight, too small a fit because this dress is from one of his sister’s dolls and was not made for tiny three-year-old boys. But he stays quiet and lets his sister play ‘dress-up’ because it means he _actually_ gets to play with her, and it’s not a false promise like last time. She actually wants him here in her room and _actually_ invited him to her tea party.

Florentyna gently places a matching white knitted hat on to his head and brushes his autumn coloured curls inwards so they shape more of his face. She grabs some of her colourful chalks and liquids and dabs them on to his cheeks and lips and eyelids. And Jaskier doesn’t mind this part, doesn’t mind having the ‘make-up’ marked on to his face, because her touch is gentle and he doesn’t often get touched gently. 

He doesn’t often get touched or soothed at all.

Then she lifts him up, only ever so slightly struggling with his weight, and places him on a small wooden stool and pushes him in closer to the table, where a small tea set awaits. She sits on the opposite side, after securing the rest of her dollies and teddies to their respective seats, then reaches out and pours tea for Jaskier. He grabs the cup from her and happily gulps down the sugar-sweetened water, all the while not once looking away from his sister's pretty face. 

She joins him in the drinking and she begins talking in a posh little voice, that she’s overheard her Mother and Father use when they have guests round. Jaskier finds the voice funny and tries to copy and she giggles at his poor attempt, but then he accidentally, in his excitement knocks his teacup over, spilling the sugar water all over his sister’s pretty miniature-sized table cloth. 

And he goes rigid with fear, as his sister gasps and he ducks his head down, ready and waiting for the harsh heated words, or perhaps the not so gentle touch that he just _knows_ is coming.

But nothing comes. 

His sister instead is muttering “silly baby brother, it’s okay, I have a towel” and she is wiping up his mess, as he thinks that he is useless, that he is annoying.

That he can’t do anything without spoiling it.

But his sister isn’t angry. She has gone back to pouring tea in the teacups and placing them down in front of her teddies. She looks up at Jaskier and asks if he wants any more to drink? And Jaskier nods his head feebly, his fear from being shouted at already starting to subside. This time when she pours him a drink, she doesn’t fill the cup up quite so much.

They continue to play for several more minutes, enjoying the relative peace and serenity it brings. But then a bell in the large house rings and they jump up quickly and rush towards the bedroom door. Florentyna hurries outside, before turning back around suddenly, and almost screams out in panic,

“Wait, the dress, we need to take the dress and hat off,” and they both panic and hastily try to rid Jaskier of the garments.

Florentyna grabs the wet towel from before and rubs roughly along Jaskier’s cheeks and lips, grimacing as she realises the stuff may have stained just a little. 

But she knows it will have to do, because they _both_ know if they take any more time to get to the family dining room, if the second bell goes before either arrive, there will be a punishment. 

Florentyna is only nine years old, and she fears her parents, perhaps slightly more than Jaskier, because she understands slightly more about the world they live in. She doesn’t have time to properly check that his face is clean of _all_ the make-up, so she rushes back out the door, with her brother trailing behind her, running as fast as his little feet can carry him.

They make it just in time, before the second bell rings, and they plonk themselves down at their designated seats. Florentyna is sat to the left of Jaskier, who is placed in the middle. His middle sibling, Herman sat across from him, currently gaping, eyes wide at Jaskier’s face. Bohdan sits opposite Florentyna and looks between the two before whispering quickly,

 _"_ You’re going to get in trouble, have you seen his face!” and his sister’s face goes white, replies with, 

“I tried! I tried to get it off, but it won’t come off properly,” and her voice cracks at the end as she looks at Jaskier rather desperately. But again, he is three and not quite sure why his siblings are paying this much attention to him. It’s the longest time all three of them at once have ever looked at him. 

Yet he can see the fear on Florentyna’s face and can see it etched into Herman’s too when heavy familiar footsteps fill the hallway leading to the room they are currently seated in.

Bohdan looks at him, with dark apprehension carved into his normally sullen face, he tries to offer up a reassuring glance, but it disappears the moment the thick double doors open, leading in his Mother and Father, who both respectively part ways and sit at opposite ends of the table. 

Alfons Pankratz briefly looks up from placing his napkin on his lap, looks around the table to land on each child, staring at each, silently telling them to break and place their own napkins on _their_ laps. Jaskier rushes to do this, but he moves too quickly and clinks his cutlery together, watches pitifully as one falls down onto the stone floor. 

Alfons exhales slowly out of his mouth as his Mother _tut’s_ from her side of the table, the other children bow their heads and wait with bated breath for what his father will do now. 

But Jaskier cries out a little “Sorry, I din mean to,” and his Father exhales once again, clears his throat, gets up from his seat and walks steadily towards Jaskier.

 _“What have I told you about speaking properly Julian? Enunciate and speak_ _clearly."_ and he is closer now, bending down near his chair to pick up the discarded knife, _“_ I will not have you bring our family name down!” he bellows. 

At this he finally looks up at Jaskier, takes in his pink stained face with his dark red lips and he becomes enraged.

“And what in the hells name of Melitele is on your FACE!” spittle flies across Jaskier’s cheek, who bends his head down, gaze looking upon the table, too scared to watch his Father’s fury anymore. 

Everyone else watches on in silence, as Alfons goes into a rant about looking proper, about how he will not allow his sons to look like this, _ever_. How disgusted he is just looking at Jaskier. Then he demands that his youngest leave the table, demands he goes to his room and tidies himself up, to go without food for the evening, and to wait for further punishment.

Jaskier nods his head still bowed, refusing to show his now scarlet cheeks, dirtied with his tears. He starts to rise out of his seat, but before he leaves it, his sister reaches out under the table and squeezes his hand. He looks up at her and she mouths a “sorry” at him before he is dismissed entirely..

At that moment, as he walks the long way back to his room, at the other end of the house, he knows that he won’t be invited to play tea with Florentyna again. And it is this that finally makes him break down with tears because today had been a good day.

Today he had felt some of the love he _always_ gave out to the world, reflected back on to him, in the form of a small teacup filled with sugar water. 

And he knows it won’t happen again.

* * *

Jaskier is four years old and his oldest brother is fourteen years old,

And to Jaskier that means he is a grown-up, he is big and strong, and he can lift that really heavy, shining, silver sword that has his family’s crest delicately engraved on the hilt.

And he knows it's heavy, he knows it’s impossible to pick up and to hold because he has tried to hold it himself and he has failed.

So, when he sees his big brother, _his protector,_ when he sees him effortlessly lift the impossibly heavy sword and swing it in short practiced movements, he is in shock.

His mouth is gaping and his eyes are wide, and he is standing frozen in place as he watches his brother from afar, move about the grassy field with swift, graceful movements.

And then suddenly he is laughing, a delighted little laugh, escaping his mouth because this means that his brother can play with him. This means that Bohdan can be the knight that he loves so much, out of the very books that he has spent countless hours reading and re-reading.

And so Jaskier runs to join in with his brother. Runs into the field and in the way of the sword, but he is oblivious. Jumping up on his little feet and toes and smiling broadly at Bohdan, because,

 _“_ look, look, I can play too, I can be your second, I can help you fight the monsters and the dragons,” and he is so excited. 

So excited he keeps moving forward, towards the bright silver sword, reflecting in the sun's light. He moves into the lovely swung arch his brother is executing, but he does not see the sword come closer.

So close that it grazes his cheek ever so slightly. In an instant pain erupts and he jumps back, clutching his cheek and looks down in horror as he sees a tiny spec of blood on his finger. 

“For Melitele’s sake, move Julian, I don’t have time for this, go be a nuisance somewhere else!” Bohdan smoothly pirouettes past him, swinging his sword up high again, and continues the same practiced movements that he was doing moments earlier.

Jaskier unroots his feet from the ground and takes one last look at his brother playing with his sword, moving about with practiced ease, and he turns back round in the direction of his house, forcing his feet to move on and away from his brother. 

His brother, who hasn’t played with him for months. Hasn’t shared his toys with him, or sat down with him and just spoke to him for what feels like a very long time.

He hasn’t felt protection from him in forever.

Jaskier wonder’s why that is? Wonders what he’s done again, and vows to keep trying,

To try harder at getting his brother to play with him again, to get _both_ brothers to play with him. So, he continues to follow them around, even more than before. Trails behind them, asks too many questions and sits too close to them. 

He will pretend he isn’t scared when he asks them to read about Knights and Kingdoms and Dragons, and they accept and indulge him. But instead of his fantasies and fairytales, they read the real-life gruesome battles, and they exaggerate the monsters that are out there. 

And Jaskier pretends not to be afraid, stubbornly sits by his brothers’ sides and listens to every story, every paragraph, and sentence that passes their mouths. He in time grows to like the sense of danger these stories hold, grows to like the darkness of them, likes them because of how they make him feel. He especially likes any of the stories which feature a Witcher, a truly terrifying figure that cuts down monsters and mankind alike. 

A figure that Jaskier grips on to, because in the stories his brothers tell him, the very ones they try to scare him with. The witcher is there every time, protecting the towns and the people from different monsters. Even _if_ those monsters were sometimes those of mankind. 

Jaskier especially liked _those_ stories.

He knew that men could be monsters sometimes too.

* * *

Jaskier is five,

And he loves to be the centre of attention, he loves to run into a room and have all eyes focus on him. Even though more often than not it is accompanied by being yelled at, being told to get out and leave the room because he should not be there. He doesn’t mind this reaction because at least it is _a reaction._

The thing is he likes to be the centre of attention because sometimes he wonders maybe if he _didn’t_ run into the rooms full of people if he didn’t loudly talk and insert himself into his parents and siblings’ conversations,

Well then, he wonders if maybe, _if he didn’t do that_ , they would forget he was even there. They would forget that he is existing alongside them.

So, he is loud, and he is demanding, and he craves the attention because to be put simply,

_He does not get any._

Even his cousins and aunts and uncles and other extended members of the family when they come to visit, they all seem to know to ignore him too, to pay him no mind.

And at five, he thinks that maybe this is a game to be played, a game where he has to shout and shriek the loudest before someone responds and rather forcefully and even louder still, bellows at him _“_ shut the help up you little sod.” 

And maybe he runs behind people and chases them because they are surely walking faster to play along with him? But then they will rather abruptly stop, and Jaskier will run headfirst into their legs and they will glare and suck in a deep breath and spit out _“_ Would you stop doing that!”

He is five, and he is lonely, but he doesn’t understand that he is lonely. 

Doesn’t understand that the people who were supposed to love him wholeheartedly and without judgment. The people who were supposed to teach him in turn how to love and to live. That those people are instead, ignoring him. Choosing not to show him the very love and affection he craves so badly.

Anyone else, this treatment would make them hard and bitter and full of resentment and anger.

But Jaskier?

He was born different, born with this unwavering devotion to love. Which only grows and grows and grows as he gets older. It becomes his only shining guiding light. His ability to love all things is all his own doing. So he clutches onto it tightly and doesn’t let go.

For now, at five he continues to run into rooms and demand attention. 

_Any attention._

This need to be seen and to be heard and to be listened to? It carries with him into his adulthood. He will forever be demanding attention from the wrong people, asking too much from people who only have a little to give. 

He will not know how to stop because this is all he has ever known. To chase, and to chase and to carry on running after the affection, until he gets just a little in return.

He will take anything,

_because anything is always better than nothing._

* * *

He is six,

And he is struggling to breathe, struggling to swim towards his brothers, who are...just…a..little out..of reach. He is grasping for them, but he is too far away, and the water is dark and murky, and he cannot see below him.

And _oh_ maybe he can’t do this, maybe he cannot swim in the deepest part of the lake like his brothers have told him to do.

But **_no_ ** that cannot be right.

His brothers can do it, he has seen them swim to the other side, and they said that he could too. They said they’d play with him if he just swam towards them. Just a few more meters and he’d be able to meet them.

But then he is being yanked backward and he is screaming and huffing and puffing, and trying not to swallow the horrible tasting murky, dirty water. It’s his sister who has grabbed him. Pulling him up out of the lake, dragging him across the embankment and safely onto the soft grass. He calls out his protests as she pushes him gently to the ground. He goes to bite her on her arm, in an attempt at showing her he is _not too_ _pleased_ with this outcome. But she just pushes him further to the ground and relinquishes her hold on him. Lets him get his breath back, before saying,

“Idiot little bird, you cannot swim, you are too small and they are too big,” she raises her voice further to carry out to the other side of the lake, to where their other two siblings are currently standing bent over in laughter and says, “And _they_ should know better!” but this only further heightens the brothers laughter. 

She huffs and turns away from them, grabbing Jaskier’s arm once again, she moves closer to the oak tree where her book of poetry is turned upside down on the grass. She picks it up as Jaskier sits beside her.

“Come sit Buttercup, and I shall read out loud from my book of poetry,”

He is still angry at her, but he is also secretly pleased because he thinks that perhaps, maybe she is right and he wouldn’t have been able to swim that far out. So he sits quietly beside her, happy to be drying out in the sun, and listens closely to words that fall elegantly from her lips as she reads to him the poetry that she loves so much.

Jaskier loves this moment, for he may struggle to understand the meanings behind the poetry, but it doesn’t really matter as he can hear the devotion and love coming through his sister's voice as she speaks each line perfectly. She understands the words and she reads them to Jaskier, her voice soft and mesmerizing to witness. 

He thinks that maybe he _loves_ poetry. 

Loves the way the words seem to fit one another. Long flowing sentences, that root themselves in your heart, spread out and grow and fill up the tiny gaps of darkness within it. Growing until all you feel is the love behind the words. 

He remembers the poetry well, he remembers being sat by his sister's side each time, learning how the words hit home, even more, when she utters them to him softly. 

Jaskier thinks one day, he will write his own poetry and say it sweetly and softly to his sister. Hopes that she, in turn, will feel as much love and be moved as much by his words as he currently is by hers right now.

* * *

He is seven and then he

is eight

and nine,

and he is still chasing after his brothers, still chasing after his Father’s love, and his Mother’s adoration. And he’s watched Bohdan become the spitting image of their father, watched him cleverly weave his way into politics, and the business of men. Seen him slowly cut away his softer parts, seen him slowly carve out the parts that made him sweeter and kinder and a protector. Now he is all hard edges with a voice that bites and mocks.

He has watched his second brother, Herman, forge his own path, seen him pick up the same skills for sword fighting, and fencing that their older brother once had. Seen him pick up those skills more easily and effectively. Seen him craft and hone them. He has watched him become better and stronger than Bohdan ever was. 

He is watching his brother leave his home in search of honor and glory. Leaving his family behind in search of something better, something that might make his Father proud, but something that will also make himself happy, something just for _him._

And suddenly Jaskier is three again, and his twelve-year-old brother Herman is sat across from him, reading out of a big, dark green, leather-bound book, that has old, yellowed pages. With letters scribbled in the corners of the first page, spelling something that Jaskier can’t quite read just yet. And Herman is giving the characters in the story funny voices. 

All accept the knight.

The knight, he reads out in his most commanding and charming voice, and Jaskier is looking up in awe because he thinks his brother kind of looks like a knight right now, with a candle he brought with him into Jaskier’s room, flickering in its holder, forcing out the dark that he had felt closing in on him as he tried to sleep. He thinks that right now his brother is being very brave sitting on the floor by his bedside as he reads from the big book with too many words and not enough pictures. 

He is being brave reading Jaskier back to sleep, and he isn’t scared of the dark or any monsters that might be under his bed. And Jaskier thinks he loves him, loves that his brother is going to be a knight one day, big and brave and helping to chase all those monsters away.

 _So_ , he is seven and he is eight and he is nine,

And at nine he has started to perhaps, _just maybe,_ learn that the things he is chasing after don’t want to be caught. And certainly not by him.

He is nine and he knows now that the Pankratz don’t really know how to love their children, not properly and not equally, and not wholly as they should. He is nine and is starting to realise chasing after his brothers, whilst it might be what _he wants_ to do, it isn't what _they want_ him to do. 

And he knows that despite this, despite the lack of warmth and love that he should have received from his family, he still loves openly and honestly. 

He figures that maybe that’s his purpose?

To love everyone and everything, to love wholly and fully, and maybe he _has_ to love extra because sometimes, some people aren’t capable of doing it.

_So, he loves for them too._

* * *

He is eight when he is sent to the Temple School,

And it is there that he learns once again, love seems to only be reserved for that in fairy-tales and the poetry that Florentyna loves to read so much.

He is bright and clever and picks up the work quickly, but he is fidgety and often gets caught out in class for daydreaming. He receives the cane to his hands far too many times to count, and he worries for the letters that might make it back home to his Father. 

It is here that he finds his first true love, his first love that he finds himself, and it is that of music and softly sung lyrics and finely tuned strings on a beautifully crafted lute. 

After this he learns to pay attention in class. Learns to accept that this is temporary and that it is teaching him how to write and once a week he gets to partake in music lessons. He gets to hear the joy music makes and he gets to learn how to play along and how to sing. 

And it is here that he realises he has a talent for making words sound elegant, making words join together to create something sweet, and when partnered with the sounds of lute strings, he realises that life can be beautiful and full of love. 

He learns to do better in class, to stop getting noticed in case the cane reappears. 

After all, his hands have now become one of the most important parts of his body to cherish alongside his slightly damaged heart. 

In time he knows that his hands will help to heal, that they will create beautiful music so full of the love that his heart pours out into the world, and he thinks that perhaps one day the music will help others out as it has helped him. 

* * *

He is ten,

And he is watching his Mother die.

He is sitting outside her room, waiting to be called in, waiting to be asked to say his goodbyes. 

_And he thinks he is sad?_

He thinks he might be hurting just a little.

But he has been mourning the loss of _his_ mother for many years before this day ever came. He thinks perhaps that he cannot mourn for this lady, for the woman lying prone and weak and sickly on the bed. Tucked away in the room that he is not allowed in. He cannot mourn because he does not know this woman. And he has already mourned for the loss of his mother, a mother he never truly had. 

But when he watches his sister, his lovely sister come out of that room, crying, her shoulders slumped down in devastation, he thinks perhaps he will mourn this loss _for her_.

That he _can_ do.

He is ten and he is watching his sister stand tall by their Mothers’ gravestone, tall but he can see her mouth tremble ever so slightly.

He is ten and looking around for his other siblings, looking for Herman, no, _Aleksander,_ because that’s what his army friends call him, and that’s the name he introduced himself as to all the people at the funeral.

_Jaskier will learn one day that this was done on purpose, a last-ditch attempt at further removing himself from his father’s shadow, removing the name that they shared. He will understand and take inspiration from this. Realise how powerful a name can be, especially one that you have chosen for yourself._

And he can see him, standing on the other side of the gravestone, head bent down, hat clutched in hands that have small pale pink scars littered on them. 

And that’s new, 

_when did they appear?_ Did they hurt? Was he brave when they happened? Did someone carefully and gently tend to them, wash away the blood and wrap white linen around them, like so often Herman did for him? Jaskier hopes so.

He may not see his brother now, he may not have played with his brother for years, he may be struggling to keep hold of the few memories he has where the light behind his brothers’ eyes was brighter and happier and directed at him. He may be struggling to keep those memories safe and warm when he is faced with the cold and the dismissals. 

But he knows he will always remember how to love. 

He will always love his brother, 

and he will love his brother enough for _the both_ of them.

* * *

Jaskier is twelve and he is Jaskier now,

He is proud of the name he has given himself and he knows one day he will be remembered for that name and that name _only._

And he thinks he is content with that.

For now, he continues his lessons, continues to let his Father dictate his life for the next few years.

But he has a plan, and he _knows_ he will stick to it. He will get out of this unloving home and he will instead choose to make his _own_ , a home he will carry on his back and be filled with love and happiness, laughter and music,

and he will share this with anyone who wants it and anyone who may need it. Even if they don’t know how to ask for it, Jaskier will know to give it to them.

After all, it’s his purpose is it not? 

To love for those who do not know how to love those that are like him and seeking any form of love or affection that their body and mind desperately crave.

* * *

He is thirteen and watching his sister leave him.

For she is nineteen and in love, and she is a woman. Her life had been written out for her before she was even born. Plans and preparation for her already set in gear. Jaskier learns how life can be just as unfair to women as it has been to him. Learns that perhaps his sister has had it worse all these years, because unlike him she has no choice but to do what her Father demands, to do what is expected of her. He learns that _all_ the other women in their community are expected to do the same.

It seems to be expected in the _whole_ of the continent.

He mourns for her, and for the others too. He sees the injustice and he curses at Melitele for creating this cruel and unjust world. His sister may be in love, may think that marrying the man before her is the right thing to do. She may believe that he loves her for _her_ and not for the name and title she carries.

But she has been lied to. 

This marriage is a set-up. Constructed by Father and Bohdan. An alliance between two families that seek more coin and more importance. Hoping that together they can strengthen their ties in each of their communities and gain more popularity, and therefore more money and power.

Florentyna is oblivious to this, thinking it by a complete and miraculous accident to bump into her sweet man, her adoring man, her first real true love. But this man is in on it too, in on the plan, and keen to gain a better standing in court and gain access to _all_ that rich family names such as the Pankratz brings.

Jaskier knows all this because he had overheard all three men talking, had seen this happen in his Father's study, and he had immediately run to his sister's room, to warn her, to tell her not to let her heart get swept up in it.

But it was too late, she was in her room and she was slowly twirling around the floor, a dazed and serene look upon her face. When she notices Jaskier step forward across the threshold, she opens up her arms to him, begging him to come forward and grasp them. She pulls on Jaskier’s hands gently, encouraging him to twirl around with her, and she giggles and gasps and softly whispers,

“To think I am in love Buttercup, actually in love! And he loves me too, I cannot believe my luck” and she twirls Jaskier around again, her face shining in the sun, and Jaskier thinks she looks beautiful like this.

Absolutely stunning.

And he thinks he cannot take this away from her. How could _he_ be the one to destroy love? 

He is the gift giver, the bringer of love. He does _not_ take it away. He has witnessed his family give little love to him and his sister, and even his two older brothers. He has witnessed the effects this has had on all of them. And he cannot take this hope and love away from his sister. 

He cannot be the one to do it.

He thinks perhaps, the man she loves will love her too, that if they do not love her right now, he thinks that maybe after being in her company for longer, they _will_ fall in love with her. How can they not? Florentyna with all her flaws is still one of the most loveable, important people in his life. She was the one who taught him that his softer sides were the better sides of him. She taught him to love himself, to love the world around him. To seek beauty in all the small things, to indulge and immerse himself in anything that brings joy and light and happiness to their dreary world. 

And she may not know that she has done this, but it doesn’t matter because the lesson has been learned anyway and he has taken it upon himself to pass the same lesson on to other people. 

He thinks that she will be okay, she is strong and she is lovable. 

So he lets her lead him round her room, spinning, and twirling and giggling alongside her.

He does not know that this will be one of the last memories he has of them being happy and content together. Does not realise that this marriage she has accepted will be the death of her. 

In three years, Jaskier will lose the one thing in his life that meant the world to him.

This memory will turn bitter, and he will feel resentment for himself, feel it curl up and bury inside him. He curses and swears, angry for not telling her the truth when he had the option to do so. Angry for not telling her the choice she was making was not actually a choice, but another line of her story pre-written. 

He will hate himself desperately at that moment, will still hate himself years to come for the inaction he took that day. 

He has let his sister down and he will never forgive himself.

But he will make sure his sister’s memory lives on. He will immortalise her in song, and one day his love for her and everything that she was will be sung in front of hundreds of people who will be listening intently and who will be singing along with him.

_The Girl and Her Buttercup._

* * *

He is sixteen and he has learned to sneak out of the house.

Learned to keep light on his toes, and swift on his feet.

He is sixteen and he is in love with a girl. A girl who has helped him overcome his grief for his sister has taught him that love does exist like those out of his sister's poetry books. This girl is fiery and quick-witted, she is charming and fun and full of laughter. Even in his saddest moments, she turns around to him and smiles her earth-shatteringly beautiful smile. White teeth glistening in the dim lighting. And his dark dreary thoughts will dissipate. 

And Jaskier sings to her, creates and finely tunes his music to show his adoration and the love that he has for her. She laps it up and asks for more, tells him how talented she thinks he is. Gives him affection and gentle touches without him having to ask for it. Gives it out because she wants to and because she can. 

Jaskier learns that to touch someone, to touch them with reverence and to worship their body, is one of the best things in the world that he can do. He loves the closeness and the warmth he feels in those moments. Loves how safe and protected he feels. Loves how the _love_ feels shared. 

_It is this feeling that he chases after for years. He will chase the sense of love and cherishment he feels every time he is being held in someone else's arms. Every time he is pushing into the soft curves and soft flesh of a woman's body. Feel safe and secure in the stronghold of muscled arms and muscled thighs as his body in return is pushed into._

In their moments of lovemaking, she sings back to him and whispers the same words of affection that he freely gives her,

“I love you Jaskier, I love your body and your mind and those talented hands.”

And Jaskier’s eyes fill with tears because it has been _oh_ so long since someone has told him that they love him. He holds perhaps a little too hard on this girl, this love of his. He grasps too tightly and too securely, doesn’t give her much room or much space. 

And she is only sixteen too and she is young like him. Young and silly. She loves Jaskier, she really does, but she also loves another boy, slightly older and maybe not so damaged. Another who doesn’t demand her attention quite so much, another who makes her chase after their affection, and it makes her feel wild and crazy, and it distracts her from her love of Jaskier. 

She chases after someone who is not Jaskier because she has already caught him and she is bored and young and in love with anyone who sets eyes on her. She gives Jaskier up easily and moves on.

It’s not as easy for Jaskier to do the same. 

He goes through his first heartache, and he wishes desperately that his sister was there to whisper sweet things in his ear, to kiss his forehead and call him _her buttercup_. But she is gone, and he only has the memory of her left. So he thinks about what she would do, how she would pick herself back up after being left, heartbroken and hurt. And he thinks she would get up because she knew there was someone else out there just for her, made especially for her. So Jaskier thinks the same. Thinks that he can continue in his search for his love. 

And maybe it means he’ll have to search for a while, maybe it means he’ll love many and maybe it means he’ll get his heartbroken too many times to count. But if there is one thing he knows about himself, it’s his unwavering ability to love and to love many people. He can offer up his heart time and time again in the hopes of finding that _one love_ who will return it. 

Return his affection and love and keep a hold of his heart, like he so desperately wants them to do. 

* * *

He is seventeen, nearly eighteen, and he is counting down the days.

He has been slowly putting away any money he can, carefully taking with quick, nimble hands, blankets, and food storage tins and anything else he knows he will need for a life on the road, a life away from the comforts a home is meant to bring. 

He cannot wait to be gone from this home. This house that has brought him little warmth and little light. He lost his Mother years ago, perhaps never really had her, has lost his oldest brother to the dark clutches of their Father, has lost his second to the fatality that is war, and he has lost his sister, perhaps the only one of them to truly love him for who he was and for who he has become. 

He cannot wait to leave this house that is shrouded in bad memories and darker nightmares.

* * *

Jaskier is eighteen when he leaves his home when he walks away from the place that taught him what love was but not what it felt like to receive it.

He is eighteen and he has been accepted into Oxenfurt University, and he is proud. So very proud of himself, for he has gained a complete scholarship and he has done so through his sheer skill. He likes to hope it was his likability and wit and charm that helped grant him the access and not that of the power his last name still holds. 

He has done everything he can to remove himself from being a Pankratz boy, a descendant of the Lettenhoven’s. He does not want the title of Viscount. Never did. That is his oldest brother's title and he is someone else entirely. He is _not_ a Pankratz. He is Jaskier. 

Just Jaskier.

A buttercup _or_ a dandelion. 

A weed that keeps growing back. A weed that won’t disappear just because you’ve plucked it from the ground and thrown it away. Weeds _don’t_ disappear. They grow back even stronger and brighter than ever before. Just because they are hard to love, it does not mean that they _won’t be_ by someone.

Jaskier _knows_ he will be loved, one day. 

In the meantime, he will continue to sprout and show his love for everyone, for all things. His love will continue to grow back even after it has been thrown away and discarded by others. 

Jaskier will be the buttercup his sister so adoringly named him after.

* * *

He is eighteen nearly nineteen when he stumbles upon a very handsome man sitting by himself in the dark corner of a tavern. 

It’s the summer and University has broken up, so he is once again alone and has chosen to wander around the continent, playing his lute and crooning out new material that he has been developing in Oxenfurt. So far it has not been going as well as he had hoped, with people chucking things that _don’t_ resemble coin at him, but hurts just as much as if they were.

He is standing before he knows it, brushing dirt from his knees and hurriedly stuffing his pockets with the old rotting food that had been thrown at him. He is walking towards this man, who seems to be just as lonely as Jaskier feels. He walks and he tries to flirt as he approaches,

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and brood,” leaning against a wooden pillar he waits for the man's response. Smiles when he does.

“I am here to drink alone.” the man all but growls through his teeth, turning his head further away. And Jaskier finds this endearing instead of the warning that it is.

His response is to sit and carry on bothering the guy,

“Good yeah, good. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Accept...for you. Come oooon you don’t want to keep a man with... _bread_ in his pants waiting,” and okay Jaskier knows that line is terrible, _awful,_ definitely not one of his best, but the man in front of him has made him more nervous than any before. He asks him for a review, wants _anything_ this man might give him. 

The man, with his white hair and beautifully sculpted face, does not look impressed. He looks angry for his peace to have been interrupted. But he does humor him and responds in kind with,

“They don’t exist.” and he takes a little bit of pleasure in watching the bard’s face frown in confusion.

“Whaaat don’t exist?” Jaskier asks, intrigued now, and happy he isn’t being turned away.

“The creatures in your song.” is the man’s gravelly response. 

“And how would you know?” and at this Jaskier really looks at the man, with his dark leather pleated shirt, and leather straps on his chest.

Looks at the silver medallion that just so happens to have a wolf right in its centre. He looks behind the man, to the left of him and sees two swords sheathed in a black case and he _knows_ without a shadow of a doubt just _who_ this man is.

And _oh boy_ is he delighted.

He has always wanted to meet a witcher. It is something he has secretly longed for ever since his brothers re-told many wonderfully dark, scary stories about such a being. 

Jaskier is eighteen and he is on his summer’s break and he is longing for an adventure. He knows his songs right now whilst they _are_ good are perhaps lacking in substance. He knows that he wants to make a career out of his love of music and perfectly crafted words, but he knows first he will have to go out into the world and find his muse.

And he thinks, looking up into the witcher’s eerily yellow eyes, that he just _has._

He watches the man leave, gets up out of his seat and stares wistfully at the back of the man he has chosen at that moment to follow.

He chases after him, out of the tavern, and finds Geralt leading his horse down a path, away from Posada, and Jaskier attempts again to bring this man into conversation with him. Wants desperately for this man, _this witcher_ , to listen to him. 

He doesn’t know why, but he needs this man's attention on him so badly, he doesn't care to listen out for the warning signs in the guy's voice and the signs his own brain sends him. He learned to ignore them all those years ago when he was chasing after his parent's attention, chasing after his brothers in the hopes they’ll let him join in. 

Geralt’s growled “Go away” and his persistent silence is not enough to shut Jaskier up. Silence has never been a good way of telling Jaskier to be quiet, he instead sees it as something to be filled. So he rambles on at this witcher, at this _being,_ this man who has been purposefully _made_ for the exact stories and adventures Jaskier longs to write about.

The punch to his stomach is admittedly a big sign, one he can’t ignore quite so much. But the presence of violence and pain has never stopped him before. So he does take a pause and a step backward but continues on his path to trail after this man that he has only just met. In the hopes that this unexpected, surprising muse will let him follow. 

And he does.

Albeit, _reluctantly._

* * *

He is twenty-one and he has finished University.

He is not sad to be leaving, to be finished with his education, but he is perhaps a little sad to no longer call Oxenfurt his home. This was the first place he truly felt like himself, the first place that truly allowed him to be who he was and the first place to not shut him out. 

But leave Oxenfurt he must, for he seeks more adventure, more life on the road, more time to be spent alongside _Geralt of Rivia._ He has one degree under his belt and one hit song to add to his _hopefully_ ever-increasing catalogue of hits. His muse is still out there and has become more of a friend than a reason to earn coin now. 

As every break from uni, every summer had Jaskier seeking the witcher. Had him trailing behind him, and sometimes alongside him as Geralt grew more comfortable with his presence. It had him fleeing from the blood-curdling clutches of monsters, had him skipping from one city to the next, had him chasing high after high as he laughed and giggled, and sung and strummed away on his lute. Right alongside this terrifically talented man, this human.

_And yes he is human, more human than anyone else Jaskier has ever met,_

Who carefully picks up jobs from notices boards in towns, goes out and seeks the very monsters that everyone else runs away from. He listens to the people in the taverns and hears the people’s frightening stories on the streets about dark mythical creatures that go bump in the night. He agrees to fight them and kill them, rid the village of their despair, for a small fee. A small price that won’t always cover the costs of shelter or a bowl of slightly odd smelling food for himself. 

And sometimes he won’t even take a fee. Not if it means he’ll be making a small family go without food in return. He will say nothing as Jaskier looks up at him in admiration for turning down the much-needed coin. For Jaskier can see the kindness of this man’s heart, can see that the deep dark parts of it don’t obscure completely the lighter, softer parts. And he loves it.

Loves this man, and _oh for Melitele’s sake,_ he knows that this development is not good. Not good at all. Because everything Jaskier loves, seems to eventually tire of him, seems to eventually cast him out, force him to leave. So he tucks his love up, keeps it safe and secure, hides it away from Geralt. 

He doesn’t hide all of his open affection or warmth that he has for him but makes sure that he doesn’t find out the true extent of his feelings. He doesn’t want to scare him away and make any more of a fool of himself than he already has done.

Jaskier leaves Oxenfurt behind to go find his new home. The home in the woods, the home in the old collapsing taverns, the home he has found in the safety his witcher offers. He knows how to find him. Knows how to follow the trail Geralt leaves in each city. He thinks perhaps since their encounters have increased that Geralt may even be leaving helpful clues and tracks behind in each place he stays in, does this to make it easier for Jaskier to find him. And Jaskier can’t help but fall just a little more in love. Because surely this means that Geralt truly likes him, likes his company enough to allow him to stay by his side and go off on adventures together.

So, when he finds him again at another bleak and desolate town. Tucked up in the corner of a tavern, back to the wall, front-facing the door. His face breaks out into a huge grin, and he rushes forward to meet his friend, his traveling companion.

“Ahh, and how is the lovely white wolf on this fine, clear day?” he gets a grunt in response, but did he expect anything less?

He joins Geralt, sitting down opposite him and looks upon the man, checking for signs of injuries or any new scars. When he sees none or at least none that worries him too much, he signals to the barmaid to bring him some ale and begins to update Geralt on what has been transpiring in his life these past few months. Geralt hums and hmms at him, letting him talk a mile a minute. Jaskier occasionally manages to get a smirk out of him, and this only further increases his desire to try harder at making this man laugh, to get a happy sound to part past those sinful lips. 

“So what brings you to little old Benek? Wanting to see the beauty of that tall standing windmill?” Jaskier’s eyes shine as his mouth smiles cheekily at the witcher.

He knows he’ll only be here for a contract, but it still delights him to wind the witcher up when he can.

“Or perhaps you heard I would be performing here. Heard the news that the wonderful, exquisite looking, adventure telling bard would be wandering about these parts of the land?” he hums at Geralt’s eye roll, “Ahh yes, I thought as much. You’ve missed me, haven’t you? Admit it,”

Geralt raises an eyebrow up at this, sighing before reaching across the table to steal a sip from Jaskier’s cup. Jaskier opens his mouth ready to squawk at him, moves his hand to grab the mug back, but Geralt only flicks it away, takes another gulp and says,

“You’re right, I have missed you, more importantly, the extra ale that you bring with you,” and he smirks as Jaskier’s smile turns to a scowl. But then Jaskier notices Geralt’s rather thin and limp looking coin bag and he forgives him in an instant. 

He orders two more ales. 

He spends the rest of the evening asking Geralt to recount his most recent tales and hunts that he has been on. And once satisfied he gets up, grabs his lute out of its case and sits on a table a little further into the tavern. Still close to the witcher. Still making sure that Geralt is in his line of sight. Then he opens his mouth and lets his heartfelt poetry pour out of him. Strums on his lute and gathers a crowd with his beguiling words and his gentle fingering of worn strings. 

He had noticed how empty the witcher's coin bag was and so he hoped to make more than enough coin to afford them a bed with a roof over their heads. And perhaps a bath too because Geralt was looking a little grubby. 

He looks up after playing a few songs, looks over the crowd he now has gathered close around him, looks at the witcher, who seems to have not taken his eyes off the bard once. He catches Geralt’s eyes and smiles adoringly at him, smiles wider when Geralt tips his head at him, a small smile playing at the witcher's lips.

* * *

He continues to follow this witcher around, on and off, for years.

Finds Geralt easier and easier each time they part ways. Becomes close to the man. Learns more about a person than he has ever learned about anyone before, and he thinks perhaps it’s the same for the witcher.

He realises that the witcher doesn’t really have any _friends._ He has acquaintances, he has contractors, he has mutual respect from fellow witchers and some mages, but he doesn’t really have anyone that _chooses_ to be by his side. That chooses to stay, even when the man is being difficult. Jaskier accepts his role in Geralt's life of the friend he never asked nor wished for, but who he needs all the same. 

And on the days that Geralt can not make enough money to afford a bed, and a stable for Roach to safely graze and sleep in. He shows Geralt exactly why he needs him. He makes more than enough coin for the both of them. He stands up in a tavern, or a crowded street on market day and sings his poetic music, croons every word throatily out at them. Performs for the mass of people hungry for every _adventure_ , every _story_ that this magical bard can so beautifully sing. 

And he does this for coin, does this for fame, does this for himself, but also he mostly does this for Geralt.

* * *

Jaskier is twenty-seven,

And _wow_ have the years flown by. 

He has gone on many adventures. Witnessed many monsters in all their forms be cut down and killed, by the skillful hands of his witcher. And yes Geralt is _his_ witcher now, or at least that is what he calls him in his head. 

He has gained fame and popularity. He is _the_ most well-known lute-playing bard on the continent. He has far surpassed that egotistical, work-stealing man-whore that is Valdo Marx. _And yes he is still not over that beast of a man describing Jaskier as a ‘talentless wastrel who panders to the taste of the masses’._ He will never not be over it! The little shit. 

He has been following Geralt around for a couple of weeks now. Traveling with him again after several months apart. And has never been happier. He thinks he is getting somewhere now, breaking down more of the many walls that Geralt has built around his heart. He thinks that maybe he has stopped trying to hide his feelings for the man just a little bit. Is being a tad bit more open in his affection and touches. 

He is currently sitting inside another tavern, waiting for Geralt to come back from his fight with a Selkimore. Lapping up the story that the contractor is telling rather wonderfully. Very dramatically. Just the way Jaskier likes them to be told. And there isn’t one moment where he thinks the man is correct and that Geralt is dead.

He’s seen the man fight a Selkimore before, seen him get swallowed up and eaten. Jaskier’s own screams and panic drowned out moments later when Geralt re-emerged, ripping the body of the monster open from the inside out. He knows that Geralt is fine, and as if on cue, he comes stomping through the tavern's doors. Covered in Selkimore guts and stinking profusely. and Jaskier just grins widely. 

He goes to his witcher's side, bemoans to him why Geralt should be grateful to him. He cheekily explains how the bard's fame has, in turn, changed the reputation of Geralt, and gained him more coin. And he is joking, _well half-joking,_ because he _has_ changed the way people look at him now, he has changed the fear that normally floods through them at just the sight of the witcher. He has helped to gain him more jobs and therefore, he supposes more coin. 

All he wants in return, aside from allowing his continued presence by the monster hunters side, is one night of his service. One night to bodyguard his bard. 

For Jaskier is performing in Cintra, and he cannot believe that this is his life now. Performing for thousands, earning coin aplenty. Soaking up every last drop of his awed and mesmerized crowds. Performing in one of his favorite cities, and to have been asked by the lioness of Cintra herself!. He is excited and cannot wait to get to Cintra and perform in a royal court.

He follows Geralt to their room, and helps him out of his ruined clothes, (he sends this to be washed and dry cleaned properly), and helps Geralt into the bath, his touch lingering perhaps a little too long as he lowers the well-muscled man into the steaming water. He takes a minute to stop and really just absorb this moment. Lets the feelings of warmth and home really settle into his bones.

He is just where he is supposed to be. In a ratty old tavern in the middle of nowhere, helping clean the gruesome guts and brain splatter off of his witchers body. And Geralt just lets him soap him up, massage oils into his shoulders and sore muscles. Allows the bard close, lets him into his normally closed-off self.

Jaskier wonders if Geralt is even aware that he _has_ let him in. He thinks it happened so naturally, so easily and relatively quickly, that Geralt has let it go unnoticed. Not paying it any attention. 

But then they are talking. And maybe Jaskier has touched Geralt more than enough for tonight, or annoyed him slightly too much because suddenly he is grunting out,

“I’m not your friend,” and Jaskier just sighs, because really?

“Oh, _oh really_. You usually just let strangers rub chamomile on to your lovely bottom?” is his cheeky reply, because Jaskier is sick to death of pretending, of dancing around this subject. 

Geralt is an idiot who is _not_ in touch with his feelings but he should know better at this point. They have been traveling around the continent together for just over nine years. They are most certainly _friends._

And perhaps Jaskier wishes for that to be more. And there have been moments where he has thought it might happen, that tonight is the night, that come morning things will change. But he never has the guts to close the distance between them. Too scared to chase away the only consistent thing in his life. He desperately wants to, he wants this man so badly, that he’s even resigned himself to following him around, from town to town, village to village, going wherever his white wolf treads. 

He is curious though, curious to wonder if Geralt ever wants anything different out of life.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to know. Do witchers ever retire?” and he’s glancing down at the man in the bathtub, with dirt still smeared into his face, waiting for his reply.

“Yeah, when they slow and get killed.” Geralt’s reply is sarcastic, his face showing that he is not impressed with this topic. But Jaskier continues with it anyway. He has never been good at listening to warnings.

“Come on you must want something for yourself, once all this-” he pauses and gestures with his hand in Geralt’s general direction “-monster hunting is over with?” he finishes.

“I want nothing.” And the words sound final, and Jaskier’s heart breaks just a little. 

Because this man, this perfect, fair and just man, thinks he doesn’t deserve an alternative life. Thinks that because he was put through trials and made to weather the harshness of a witcher life. Because his body has been built to successfully eradicate all those monsters that roam the earth looking to destroy all the humans within it, he thinks that _that_ is all he is ever supposed to do, supposed to have. 

Maybe he truly never has thought about what he wants if he weren’t a witcher if he wasn’t condemned by society. Or maybe those thoughts are just too hurtful and dig up old wounds and scars that have long since healed. And here Jaskier is bringing them to the surface, forcing them to be seen. _But he cannot help it._

His witcher makes him feel more alive than he has ever felt in his entire life. It makes him mad with lust and heartache and maybe he can be brave, just a little, for this man. 

So he opens his mouth and says,

“Well who knows-” looks down at his fingers, hoping that Geralt realises his next words are about him and them “-maybe someone out there will want you,” and Jaskier is bending down now, leaning over the bathtub and gazing directly at Geralt. Pleading with his eyes to understand that that _someone_ is him. Has always been _him._

“I need no one,” those words hit like a punch to his gut. “And the last thing I need is someone needing me.” Geralt looks up at Jaskier at this, making it clear what he thinks. His catlike eyes boring into Jaskier’s own cornflower blues, determination writ into his face.

“And _yet_ here we are,” because Jaskier doesn’t know when to stop. Never has. Is always willing to put his heart on the line, even if it means for certain it will get broken. 

He also knows Geralt well. He has spent nine years by his side. He knows that Geralt is not good with his words or his emotions. Jaskier’s entire life has been realising that actions tend to speak louder than words, so he knows deep down, that Geralt doesn’t really believe this dribble coming from his mouth.

“Hmm,” a grunt as if in confirmation. 

And that’s all Jaskier needs to carry on. Geralt might not have realised that he was trying to let his feelings about the man be known, might not have fully understood the subtleness behind his words, but it’s okay. He will get his chance again. For now, just like always he is happy to be his friend. 

And right now he needs to get his friend clean and tidy, and presentable for a Royal Court. 

His touch is gentle when he runs his fingers through Geralt’s scraggy, dirty hair, washing it free of all the muck that's plastered in place. His hands are soft as they help to brush and tie up the hair in a neat fashion. The clothes he has picked for his witcher to wear aren’t as good as he’d like, but they will do. 

When they are both dressed and ready, Jaskier takes one last look at the witcher, takes in his beauty once again, and hides his love for him. Buries it back down. He has a crowd to play and sing for, and he cannot let his melancholy thoughts take over. 

They make it to Cintra in good time, and before long he is playing to the masses. And he loves this, loves being able to gift the world with his songs and his voice and his eloquent strumming of his lute. Loves that they seem to love him back too.

He finally knows what it’s like to be loved, can feel the love that he pours into his music and songs be reflected back by the crowds who join in. The people who have learned _his words_ and sing it _back_ to him. He is in awe at what music can do and what it has done for him.

And at this moment, he is truly breathtakingly happy, the boy he once was has long since gone and in its replacement is a man who has found his voice in the world. Found his place, his true calling. 

And all of this has formed, because of the love he has for a certain yellow-eyed witcher. It’s his own sheer talent and skill that has got him to where he is today. But it is also his unwavering ability to love that has gained him his time in the spotlight.

He thinks he fell in love with Geralt the moment he laid eyes on him, felt a spark hit deep down in his belly, felt a certain kinship with this lonely looking man. A man that knows what it's like to be described countless times as hard to love, to be pushed aside and plucked apart. A man who has had to learn to live life on his own. 

Jaskier sees all of this and loves him more for it. 

* * *

He is thirty-four years old, looking as young as he had at eighteen, still feels the same youth he had then too. 

_And perhaps this is something he should delve into deeper, figure out exactly why he still feels and looks as young as he was the day he met Geralt, but for now, he is content in forgetting, in not paying it any notice._

He has just had his heartbroken, and he really must stop doing this to himself, stop falling for the wrong people. And he is running away from his dear beloved Countess de Stael because she has broken up with him, _again might he add,_ and obviously there is something wrong with him, something in him that stops people from loving him or at least stops them from loving him for long periods of time. Like maybe all he is good for is a quick fumble and mess around, a quick lay in the sack, and then they toss him out. 

And he is not laying the fault at all his lover's doors, he knows he can be just as bad. He finds it so easy to fall in love with people, with anyone and everyone he comes into contact with and who pays him the slightest bit of affection. It’s like all those years in his childhood, spent without love being given to him freely, has made him crave that attention so much more, made him crave for it long after he receives it. Like no matter how much he gets, he sometimes thinks it will never _be enough_ , it will never fill those holes that had grown during his early days of life. 

This insistence he feels, this love he craves, causes him to either be too much for his lovers, too needy and demanding or it causes his eyes to wander and drift and fall for the next person who shows him the _slightest_ bit of affection.

It is this feeling that makes him go find Geralt again. Go find his witcher. The only man who has put up with his company for an extended period of time. The only person he has loved and thinks the love he has for him is the only love that will ever last. He cannot see himself ever falling out of love with Geralt of Rivia. And whilst this thought is scary, he has had over a decade to get used to it.

He finds him by a river fishing for a Djinn of all things.

Whilst he is dying and then recovering, his dreams are filled with the touch of Geralt, the touch of his arms holding him securely as he raced on Roach’s back to find a cure for the bard. He dreams of the heat those touches held, dreams of the man standing by his sickbed as he looks down at the bard with such utter sadness, _and that won’t do,_ Jaskier cannot stand to see his witcher look sad. He dreams and dreams and dreams, and nearly all of them are filled with Geralt. 

His life flashes before his eyes, and he realises his life has never had as much substance and brightness that it has had by Geralt’s side. Realises that perhaps Geralt’s in turn has had colour and laughter and warmth put back into his. He thinks that maybe they were meant for each other. Made to find one another in their darker moments. Made to fit so perfectly together. 

He wakes and he thinks perhaps it might be time to tell Geralt the true nature of his feelings. Thinks that some of the dreams he had been having, weren’t dreams at all, and were, in fact, the events that led him to this stranger's bed. And if they are real, then he thinks that maybe, _perhaps,_ Geralt feels something for him too?

He is standing before he knows, running out of the weird magic-filled house, escaping to the outside, trying his best to find Geralt. He’s ready to not let this man out of his sight again. Ready to tell him just how much he means to him, exactly what his mere presence has done to his life, how it has changed and uplifted it.

He’s ready to take that leap of faith and close the distance. 

But then Geralt is running back inside, to save a witch who had saved Jaskier’s own life, and this right here, as annoying and downright aggravating as it is, is also one of the many reasons why Jaskier fell in love with this man in the first place. He can never just leave be. He has to do what he morally thinks to be right, and fair and _just_.

Jaskier watches the love of his life, the only love to ever stay etched into his heart, run into a building that falls and crumbles around him. Watches as the dust settles by his feet, dirtying his already ruined clothes. His mind for once is quiet, stuck in limbo. Not quite sure of what to make of what he has just witnessed his mouth continues to talk, rambling on, not really imparting what he truly feels. 

Then he is up, on his feet, running to the broken windows of the house and staring inside, and it’s fine because he can see Geralt alive and well and breathing and-

He’s fucking that witch.

He almost died and instead of getting out of the house that was not two minutes ago crumbling around him, he is lying down and letting the woman straddle him, riding him, doing the very things to him that Jaskier wishes he himself were allowed to do.

_Fuck,_

He really is destined for a life of loving people who cannot love him back.

But still. Geralt is alive and well, and this woman is merely a passing fancy. They will be fine, him and his witcher. They will continue to travel together, hunting down beasts, filling taverns with song, collecting coin and enjoying each other's company. 

Jaskier can love and love and _love_ , even if Geralt cannot and will not see it. 

* * *

Jaskier is forty-two,

and he thinks he may finally be broken.

Yennefer has come and gone over the years. Dragging Geralt into a whirlwind of a romance, before letting him go and moving on, doing as she pleases. And Geralt just lets her, lets her continue to pick him up and put him back down, slightly more damaged time and time again.

And Jaskier can’t blame her, not really. Over the years and through the limited words Geralt has spoken to him about her, he understands just a little. Understands that perhaps her life had started off just as badly as Geralt’s, understands her childhood was probably worse than his. Understands that she is trying to live _her_ life _her_ way. And Jaskier cannot really fault her for that.

It just sucks that she carelessly hurts Geralt in the process. And by proxy Jaskier, because it hurts so fucking much to witness Geralt choose the witch over and over again when he is stood by his side, the entire time.

Hurts when it is _he_ who puts the witcher back together as best he can, _he_ who picks up the pieces and watches his own heart fall apart as he does so. With no one to grasp his own broken shards and glue them back together. 

He is watching again as Yennefer leaves him. And it sounds like it’s for good this time. Looks like whatever spell was between them is well and truly severed. Yet Jaskier knows they are each other's destiny, knows that they cannot outrun it no matter how hard they try. 

But for now, Yennefer is walking away, summoning up a portal and walking through it. 

Geralt is turned away, looking out over the side of the mountain, and Jaskier does what he knows best. He plows on through the tension gathered in the atmosphere. Ignores the warning signs and breaches the silence.

“Ooh what a day, I imagine you wan-” and he’s interrupted abruptly.

“Damit Jaskier! Why is it when I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s _YOU_ , shoveling it!” Geralt's harsh words ring in his ears, play over and over in his head, his weak voice pleads out,

“That’s not fair-” but Geralt is determined. 

Determined for once to get the last word. To shut Jaskier up with bitter sharp words, that leach away at him, pool deep in his stomach like a poison and sits there, causing him to bleed inside.

“If life could give me one blessing it would be to take _you_ off my hands.” Geralt turns away, can’t even stand to look at the sight of him. 

Jaskier just stands there, stunned into silence. His body slowly catching up with his mind, makes him move backward and away, tumbles out words that have no meaning. 

His heart has crumpled. The blood has poured out of it. The thing that he has always prided himself on. The love that he has always, _always_ felt, has vanished. Gone. 

In its place is emptiness. Bleak, stark emptiness. 

He cannot feel. It’s like everything has just stopped. He is drained and tired and his body keeps moving down the mountainside, on autopilot. He picks up his lute, gathers up his pack, ignores the others who are stood there gathering up their things, readying themselves for the trek back down. 

They call out to him, ask him where he is going.

But he ignores them. Does not truly hear them. His mind is for once blessedly silent. There is no running commentary. There is no background music. 

It is dead. It is gone. 

His heart has shattered into a tiny, million pieces, 

and he thinks it might not ever come back.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly thank you for reading.
> 
> Secondly, I am so, so sorry. I do not know why I have to hurt Jaskier so but I cannot help it.
> 
> Thirdly I do wish to make another fic. One last one that will pick up where the show ended. Hopefully bringing Jaskier into the found family with Geralt and Ciri and even Yen. But for now, as work and uni get a bit busier it will have to wait.
> 
> Comments and Kudos would be nice lol, if you actually enjoyed reading this XD


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